Letters home

My dear friend,

I am always intending to write you of large and small things. The words I horde in treasure boxes and the secret phrases of magnolias in bud. The world moves in ways I don’t accept, and so I’ve moved my heart into Victorian England, hoping for more than it can give. These barriers of time and place make no difference to a sentence, though perhaps I don’t connect it to the subtleties of dialogue. Streams only flow into larger rivers and can’t receive anything back. The mechanics of tributaries stretched into wispy metaphors.

Because it’s late, and in honour of the occasion, I’ve made myself a cup of camomile tea. And in my impatience, I will burn my tongue, unless some thought hangs on its expression until the steam subsides. The weather has been moody, bearing the burden of peevishness for me. I find myself opening in the lateness of March, the promise of a slow climb into warm weather. The smell of dampness has changed, and though I have stepped to spring attire just a touch too early, the morning chill remains less penetrating than it was. So my heart eases into the new green that lies just beyond the cherry blossoms.

I do not apologize for the opacity of this letter. I think you, of all people, know the meaning of these turnings of my mind. The chaotic sacrifice of sense on the altar of sound. Because this is me at some hours, just as the woman you knew once upon a time is me, and the uncertainty of tomorrow is also me. However you are, whatever you wish you knew, may your journey bring you occasions of peace. And always remember with love this woman with a pocketful of whimsy at the ready. I am yours faithfully,


Filling a vacuum

Tis the season for giving up, and though I’ve moved away the tradition that officially gives things up, I do believe that abstaining from vices on occasion is good for the soul. So I’ve given up a website I normally go to that allows me to passively consume idiocy while searching for the occasional chuckle. Because this particular website reinforces a particularly short attention span, hive-mind paranoid thinking, and smugness. None of which I need. But what this leaves me with is time. More time than I care to admit.

What does a woman do with this time? Perhaps becomes a bit reflective. Perhaps finds old companions. Old thoughts. New thoughts. Strange places. Discovers tiny bits of the world again. Allows herself to untangle and exhale into something like real life, but more like imagination.